The struggle
by My Skydream
Summary: I dont know where I'm going whit this. So bare with me. I wrote this on a gut feeling. Romance/no romance. Who knows.


Standing in front of him was America. Smiling sadly with cold eyes, staring down at his fallen appearance. England lifted his hand slowly as to capture America's hand. The intention of not letting go. Americas eyes hardened and stepped back, lifting his gun. England felt the rain pour down on them. It was icy cold. He barely noticed his own tears trailing down his face. The gun pointing at him was invisible to him, he only saw the rebellious man standing in front of him. Americas finger rested on the trigger, giving the British one last smile. A smile that would hunt the Brit forever, one with a silent 'thank you' and 'sorry' written into it. The loud 'bang' was deafening, drowning the sound of the rain.

England almost jumped out of bed. The sweat pouring and tears trailing down his face. Looking around him frantically he relaxed a little. It was a dream… a dream. He sigh and rest his head in his hands, reality slowly seeps in. A twisted memory. One he don't want to remember. England sits there for an eternity, just staring emptily down in his lap. His magical friends looked worried at him. Floating around him, trying to get his attention. England glanced at the clock. It showed the date 4. July. He gives a empty sigh. Every year. Every year. He knows that the memory he dreams of isn't the real one, but… it's still hard to push it of his mind. He dried the remaining tears and got out of bed. Patting his flying friends with a small smile to reassure them, he got dressed. Because of Americas loud refusal to have a meeting today, the meeting was postponed for two days. Not that England complained. He wasn't sure if he could be himself today anyways.

Muttering quietly he started cleaning absent mindlessly around the house. Without thinking he ended up in the attic, sorting out what he could throw away. Because he was a country he had lived a long life and had a lot of memories. Lots of stuff was laying around, some with important history, some more insignificant. After a hour or two he stumbled upon a big chest, it was covered with a thick layer of dust that one could mistake the color for dark gray. After dusting some off and coughing from the big dust cloud swirling at his face, it was a dark wooden brow chest. One the plate gold plate on top it was a name engraved.

_**'**__**Alfred'**_

England tried to process the name in his brain, but he ended up just staring at the it. He knew, but right now he wasn't that stable and just the mention or hint of America made his mind stumble. With a shaky hand he reached for the lock to open it. The knock at the front door was as loud as a cannon shot it made England jump backwards, almost knocking his head on a shelf. Two more bangs was heard and a voice following.

"OI! ENGLAND! YOU THERE!"

England froze recognizing the owner.

"A-a-a….america?" he whispered in shock. Wasn't he supposed to be in USA celebrating his independence from Britain? Why was he here? Hundred of questions was spinning in his head as he stumbled on his feet.

"ENGLAND!" America wined banging on the door again.

He was going to break his door if he continue, England though while clumsy maneuvering to the attic door. Half way he tripped on a old cane and slammed to the ground. The impact transferred to a shelf beside him, making a ugly vase waver and fall off. Hitting his head with a loud smash and porcelain shattering every were.

"Bloody hell!" He shakes his head only to make him more dizzy. Lifting his hand he touched the area the vase hit him, getting dark substance on his fingers. "Bugger"

After drying his blooded fingers on a cloth he tried to get up by supporting himself on solid objects around him. One of the things that helped him was the criminal that made him trip. The elegant cane was solid enough to bare some of his weight. England couldn't even remember who he got it from. With his slow progress he finally reached the attic door, only to almost be knocked down by that too. America stormed in the door with a frantic look. When he saw England he relaxed only to widen eyes on his bleeding head.

"ENGLAND!" He yelled grabbing him by the arm he didn't use to support himself.

"You bloody git! are you trying to make my head hurt more with your yelling!?" England scold back, tilting his head back to rest it. The blood pumping in and out of his head hurt, it hurt a lot, but it wasn't something he couldn't handle. This was nothing. He was a country after all.

"Sorry" America muttered, still holding a strong grip around England's arm "Are you okay?"

"Do I look bloody okay?" England knew he was snappy, he knew he was harsh, but he couldn't help it. Just the touch of him made him want to cry. The flash backs of the dream memory flooded his head. He sigh. "Just help me down would you" He sounded so tired, like he had given up.

America nodded quietly and made England support his weight on him. Staggering their way down America made him sit down on the sofa. England dried away some blood that had trailed down over his eye.

"Bloody hell" he flinched when he tried touching the wound.

America grabbed his hand and pulled it away. "Let me look" he muttered.

To England's great surprise America was gentle. Incredibly gentle. He didn't know he could be that way with his overpowered strength and rash behavior. A sad smile crept on his mouth.


End file.
